


Checkmate Ends the Game

by free_pirate



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-09-09
Updated: 2011-09-09
Packaged: 2017-10-23 14:16:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/251218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/free_pirate/pseuds/free_pirate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The only thing Sam has of his father’s is an old journal. It’s written like a primer for every nightmarish thing he’s ever heard of and several that he hasn’t – things that can’t possibly be real. A chance meeting in a bar stirs something in his blood that he can’t quite explain. Dean Winchester is mysterious, maybe a little bit dangerous, but he shows Sam something he didn’t know he was missing. And hunting is just the beginning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Checkmate Ends the Game

_May 2, 1991  
Lawrence, Kansas_

The car idles on the street for a long time before the engine dies. There is a leather-bound journal on the passenger seat and John Winchester is trying to convince himself that he’s doing the right thing.

In a way, it defeats the entire purpose of leaving Sam here in the first place. He was six months old when Mary died, too young to be dragged down the dark, dangerous road John put himself on. He was trying to do right by his youngest.

Dean was different. Old enough to remember. There’s never been a choice for Dean.

But John wanted Sam safe. Safer than he’d be with him. Whatever killed Mary was after Sam – John knows this now. Knows that he probably made a huge, irreversible mistake. But maybe this would help.

Giving Sam his journal is a last attempt to protect him. The last seven years have taught John one thing: you can’t outrun things like this. You can hide, but they’ll always find you eventually.

This way, maybe Sam will at least have some warning. It’s the only thing he can do, realistically: arm Sam with the knowledge to deal with the things that would be after him.

John should have kept Sam with him. But it’s too late to burn the adoption papers and he couldn’t adopt him back no matter how many documents he was able to get forged – no home address or steady income.

So this is what he can do.

It’s late, but hopefully the Direction will still be here. If she isn’t, he’ll leave it. It isn’t ideal, leaves too much to chance, but this is his only chance to do this.

John checks a third time to confirm that he’s taken all personal information about them out of the journal and gets out of the car.

* __

 _May 2, 2004  
Palo Alto, California_

It’s early when Sam kisses Jess goodbye, loads his single suitcase into the backseat of their car and heads down to the tour company where he works. It’s summer, a coincidence that he’s starting this new job on his birthday, and he’s going to be gone for two straight weeks on a tour of the southwest.

During the school year, Sam works as a desk clerk at the company, helping tourists buy tickets and pointing them in the right direction, but actually going out on tours pays almost double what he’d make doing that all summer – and he needs the money. Their apartment is in need of some repairs that the contract doesn’t cover, and he has his eye on the ring in the window of a downtown jewelry store.

But getting married is expensive. With nothing to his name but a couple thousand dollars in student loans and no family to speak of, this is his only option.

And once he finally gets around to asking her, they can start planning for their future.

Sometimes, he wakes up in the middle of the night to Jess snuggling beside him, her wavy blonde hair falling into her face. He tucks it back behind her ear, and the words are on the tip of his tongue. Sometimes, he comes home from work or school and she’s in the kitchen, sitting on the counter next to the dinner she’s cooking. The steam makes her face flush, and when he presses close and kisses her, it makes her blush. And she kisses away the words before he has a chance to say them.

It’s all about finding the right moment. He wants it to be perfect, and so far the perfect moment hasn’t presented itself.

He gets to the terminal a few minutes after daylight. The parking lot is empty, the city streets quiet, deserted. He knocks on the glass double doors to be let in, and is lead to one of the back rooms by a man who must be his bus driver.

There is a short briefing about what is going to happen when they start loading the tourists, what’s expected of him, and when Sam heads back out to the car to get his suitcase the sun is up and bright, and the streets are slowly filling with people and traffic.

It’s another hour or so before they start loading. Sam stands at the bus doors and checks the tourists’ tickets, older men in straw hat and brightly-patterned Hawaiian shirts and their plump little wives, digging through fanny packs to find their tickets and identification.

They are underway just after eight. The passengers chatter with each other excitedly and Sam tries to get comfortable in the seat just behind the driver. His job is done until they stop somewhere for a break, but it’s a long time before he gets used to the roar of the bus engine and the din of the tourists.

They spend the second night out at a hotel on the north rim of the Grand Canyon. Sam’s never been here before, almost doesn’t believe how deep it is until they’re standing at one of the rails on the edge of the chasm, looking down, and even then it’s a surreal distance.

The next afternoon, they’re halfway to Page, Arizona, where they will rest for a few days and visit the Four Corners National Monument before moving on.

*

The hotel in Page isn’t as fancy as the one at the Grand Canyon, but the Grand Canyon is a hard act to follow. Sam thinks it’s trying too hard to look like a resort casino, but it’s not nearly large enough. It’s humble, if nothing else. The tourists don’t seem all that impressed when he helps them off the coach and starts unloading their luggage, but all Sam is interested in is resting. It’s strange how sitting on the bus all day can be exhausting.

It takes a while to get everyone checked in and settled down for the night. It’s after dark when Sam finally heads up to his own room to deposit his bag and wash the grime of the day’s ride off of his skin. There are an array of order-in menus spread next to the TV, but Sam ventures downstairs to the lobby.

There is a bar there with live music off to one side of the hotel lobby, more proof that it’s trying too hard. The music is sub-par, some eighties cover band that does bad renditions of semi-famous power ballads, but Sam is only half-listening. He orders the first thing on the menu that sounds good and settles into his booth with a beer.

He’s on his fourth one when he decides he should probably head up to bed. There is a tour to lead in the morning up to Monument Valley and Four Corners, and his muscles feel pleasantly loose when he stands up. He’s about to pay his check and leave when his eye is drawn to a guy across the room.

Sam’s noticed the guy a couple of times. His eye is drawn to him like a magnet, and he always happens to catch the guy looking his way. But this time, the guy is flat-out staring, watching him with something in his eye that Sam can’t properly identify from across the bar. So it’s a perfectly normal reaction to cross the room to get a closer look.

When he gets to the guy’s booth, he sits down across form his without being asked.

“Howdy,” the guy says, raising one eyebrow at him. “Take a seat, will you? No really, I insist.”

Snorting, Sam fixes him with a look. Now that he was here, he had no idea what he was doing, so he compensates by saying, “Saw you staring. Figured I better come over and ask what was so interesting.” It’s careful, so the guy doesn’t think he’s looking for a fight, and he sees the overused response the guy’s going to use before he opens his mouth.

But he doesn’t open his mouth. Instead, he leans back in the booth, casual, and considers Sam. “Yeah? Well, I could ask you the same thing. Enjoying the view?”

Instantly, like a switch being flipped, Sam realizes he is. His face heats. When he’s trying to shrug it off later, he’ll blame it on the alcohol; right now, he takes in all of the guy’s endearing features. He’s got freckles across the bridge of his nose, spread down across his cheeks and disappearing beneath the collar of this leather jacket. His eyes are a shade of green that Sam’s never seen before and his lips are full, almost girly. Yeah, he’s enjoying the view.

The second he thinks it, he immediately looks away and wishes he had another beer to sip at, something to do with his hands. Just thinking about it made him feel dirty, thinking about this stranger like that.

The guy must have noticed him staring, noticed Sam checking him out, because before Sam can stammer a response, the guy’s laughing to himself. His voice is low, the stuff wet dreams are made of, and Sam takes this as a sign that he really should go back upstairs and sleep. It’s been a while since he’s thought about any guy in this way, longer since he thought about it seriously.

And he’s going to marry Jess. That’s an important point.

“It’s okay,” the guy says, and now his eyes are glinting with something that has to be amusement. He leans forward, shifting his voice into a stage whisper, “I won’t tell anyone.”

Sam finally finds his voice and says, indignant, “I’m not—“

But the guy cuts him off again, laughing. “I’m Dean.”

And Sam finds himself smiling despite himself, finally recognizing that he’s being teased. “Sam,” he says, and holds out his hand. Dean considers for a moment, but finally shakes. Sam can feel the callouses on his fingers, the roughness of his palm, and notes them in an offhand, categorical way. Must work construction or something.

“So, Sam. Haven’t seen you around before – what brings you to Page?”

And that launches a friendly conversation that lasts a while. Sam notices in that same offhand way that Dean shares little personal information, keeps Sam talking. Next time he checks the clock over the bar, it’s just past midnight.

“Shit. I’ve got a tour in the morning,” he says, and scoots out of the booth, taking his check with him. He genuinely likes Dean, likes the easy companionship, and not because Dean’s the kind of pretty that he would have been all over two years ago. That has absolutely nothing to do with it.

“Yeah, that’s right.” Dean leans back again. “Well, maybe I’ll catch you again sometime.”

“Definitely,” Sam says, standing. “Nice talking to you, Dean.”

Dean smiles like that’s the best thing he’s ever heard and drawls, “Sweet dreams, Sammy.”

And Sam doesn’t tell him not to call him that. He just smiles and pays his tab, and only realizes he’s still smiling when he’s standing in front of the mirror in his bathroom upstairs.

*

He’s drawn to the bar again the next night, like there’s some sort of strange magnetism compelling him to do this. It takes him three seconds to find Dean once he walks into the dark, smoky interior of the bar. He’s in the same booth as last night, back to the wall so he can see the entire room. When he sees Sam, one side of his mouth draws up in a smirk.

“Sammy,” he says, once Sam is in earshot, and inclines his head in greeting.

Last call comes too early for Sam’s liking despite the fact that it’s been progressively harder to keep his eyes open. As much as he’d like to continue the conversation they have going, there’s a tour tomorrow morning. He pays his part of the tab and says goodbye to Dean in the lobby.

Dean gives him a goodbye-salute, two fingers to his brow and a smirk, and Sam watches him strut out of the hotel like he owns it, like the world is his oyster. Sam’s never really understood that phrase until now.

It isn’t until later that he’ll recognize this moment as the first time he remember thinking very seriously about the types of things he’d like to do in the dark with Dean Winchester.

*

Dean takes the drive back to his current home slow. It doesn’t take long, and he’s in the driveway before he realizes that he’s still grinning to himself, that he hasn’t stopped grinning all night.

He enjoys making Sam squirm. It’s been the highlight of the last couple days, and what does that say about Dean’s quality of life? He likes the blush that spreads down Sam’s neck when he slips any sort of innuendo into the conversation, when he says anything potentially dirty.

It tells Dean where the kid’s mind is at, and Dean likes that. He likes that a lot.

But he’s never going to have to worry about it, because he’s never going to see Sam again. And that’s probably best, because Sam’s determined to foil all of Dean’s plans to get him into bed by having a girlfriend he wants to marry. Taking that into consideration besides everything else, there’s not much chance that anything will come of it.

And Dean’s been in Page far too long already.

Technically, he’s obligated to stay here as long as he’s needed. The reservation up around Four Corners is having trouble with hellspawn, enough trouble that Dad arranged for him to stay here until the crossroads stops acting up. Normal crossroads don’t have these sort of problems, but Four Corners isn’t exactly normal.

State boundaries aren’t marked by lines and roads; they’re not clearly defined. Nothing about Four Corners would be acting demonically if they hadn’t slapped a monument at the place where those boundaries meet and made it important. That sort of thing tends to draw eyes, even eyes from down under.

So since they essentially had a very large, very vulnerable crossroads, those eyes from down under had decided to open a hellmouth. The hellspawn show up randomly enough to be easy to take care of, but it also means there’s no telling when the next one (or two, or ten) will show up. Dean can’t leave like he wants to.

He takes hunts in the surrounding areas when they turn up, but reluctantly. It only takes one screw-up to get a bunch of people killed.

So he’s stuck, and it’s driving him crazy.

His homestead is little more than a trailer that’s been placed on a foundation and labeled a house for the benefit of the real-estate companies. There is one bedroom, a bathroom, a living room and a kitchen, and Dean doesn’t know what to do with that much space. Occasionally when he was younger Dad would put them at an abandoned house, but they tended to stay to one room, partially because so little of the amenities worked and partially because that’s how they did things.

But in this place he’s free to take up as much space as he wants, and it’s not comfortable. It’s too big. Some nights, when he isn’t out killing hellspawn or drinking at one of the too-familiar local bars, he locks up the house and drives out to the middle of the desert. He’s got a spot there he picked out, one that’s so far from anything that no one’s the wiser. He sits on the hood and looks at the stars, so clear where there are no trees and city lights. He sleeps in the backseat because there are no city sounds and it’s small enough that he feels comfortable, feels safe.

As much as he’d like tonight to be one of those nights, it isn’t going to be. It’s too early in the morning to do anything but try to sleep. He finds himself on his couch half an hour later, nursing another beer and watching one of the few black-and-white monster movies he can’t name.

*

In Las Vegas, Sam can’t stop thinking about Dean. It’s not fair. It’s not even rational, because he’s met this guy twice and they’ve only really talked a little. He doesn’t know him at all.

It should be Jess occupying his thoughts. Sam feels guilty about that and he doesn’t know why. He buys her a pair of earrings from the World’s Largest Gift Shop and hopes she accepts his unspoken apology.

By the time they leave Vegas, he’s more than ready to be home. He wants to sleep in his own bed again, curled up next to Jess in the dark warmth of their bedroom. Summer isn’t in full swing yet, but it’s hot enough. Sam’s got to look into getting their air conditioner fixed, especially if he’s going to be leaving her there alone. He wants her to be comfortable.

As they’re rolling into the bus station, Sam wishes he didn’t have to drive home. He has to convince himself that it’s a short drive, and home is waiting at the end of it.

*

The second tour is so much easier because Sam knows what to expect. He’s got more confidence in handling the tourists, knows exactly what they’ll be doing at every stop.

The closer they get to Page, the more Sam’s stomach turns. Butterflies, nerves, something is making him want to turn tail and run. But he knows he could never do that, and he can’t just stay up in his room while Dean is down in the bar, because there’s something about Dean that grabs his attention. He’s like a really good TV show. Sam is insanely intrigued. He wants to find out what Dean will do next.

When they finally arrive and he gets all of his tourists settled, Sam takes the quickest shower he can manage and heads down to the hotel bar. Some odd sensation is curling in his gut, telling him this is the right thing to do, even though it’s strange. Maybe even because it’s strange; it’s the strangest thing Sam’s ever done.

And why does he expect Dean to be here? There’s a voice in the back of his mind telling him that he doesn’t really know this guy. He could be a serial killer. He could do something terrible to screw up Sam’s life.

But Sam ignores the voice and goes on instinct.

There are more people crowded around the bar than there were last week, but Sam spots Dean through the crowd immediately. He’s at one of the pool tables near the back of the room, and he’s playing some jock that looks like he’s barely old enough to be in a bar in the first place. Sam takes Dean’s usual seat to watch.

About five minutes later, Dean’s making his sixth periodic scan of the room (why does he do that, Sam wonders) when he spots Sam. A slow grin spreads across his face. When Dean lines up his next shot, he’s shooting away from Sam, extending his arm and bending over the cue to get the perfect angle. It’s probably not necessary, looks a little excessive even to Sam, but it makes Dean’s leather jacket ride up, and Sam gets an eyeful of the way Dean’s jeans cling to him in all the right places.

It takes a couple of seconds for Sam to realize he’s staring, imagining what all that firmness would feel like under his hands, and by the time Dean’s taken his shot and straightened again, Sam’s face has got to be bright red. There’s something mischievous in Dean’s eye even from where Sam’s sitting, and Sam works hard to swallow, to get some wet back in his suddenly-dry mouth. Christ.

A waitress comes to take his order and he gets a beer, mostly because he won’t trust himself on anything else with Dean putting himself on display like that. Sam knows Dean’s just screwing with him, making him uncomfortable because he’s sort of assumed that’s what Dean does. But Sam doesn’t feel like being screwed with. It feels like he’s being flirted with, boldly, and he’s enjoying it. As guilty as he feels about it, he’s enjoying it.

God, what happened?

Dean finishes his game and approaches the table, all swagger and confidence. “Sammy!” he says as he sits on the other side of the table, and the smile on his face makes Sam’s stomach do this weird flopping thing. God, he’s so screwed.

“Hey.” He sips at his beer, keeping his eyes fixed on some point over Dean’s right shoulder. “So how much did you hustle off the frat boy?”

There is a full second before Dean answers, when he’s looking at Sam, appraising. Finally, he says, teasing, “I’m offended you’d think I’d do something like that.”

“Yeah, right,” Sam snorts, peeling at the label of the bottle in his hands. This doesn’t escape Dean’s notice, and before Sam can protest, he’s calling the waitress over for shots. “I shouldn’t—“ Sam tries to say, but Dean fixes him with a look.

“Wanna bet I can drink you under the table, big guy?” The way he says it, all low and gravelly, makes Sam’s face heat.

And how does Dean know that Sam can’t decline a challenge? He’s got to have some sort of unfair advantage. And a guy like Dean? Sam’s not entirely sure he can win.

But he accepts anyway.

*

It’s close to one in the morning when Dean finally decides that Sam might have had enough. He’s slouched down so far in the seat that he’s almost eye-level with the table; Dean wonders what he’s done with his legs. His eyes aren’t focuses and he’s giggling a little every time Dean says something.

Now, Dean’s not entirely sober. He’s just past that pleasant buzz but not fully drunk yet; he’s still in control of his actions. It’s a short tether, but he’s got control. On the other hand, Sam is completely shitfaced. He doesn’t talk much when he’s drunk, a trait that he really should be happy with.

Either that or he’s so drunk he’s forgotten how to form sentences. Dean’s a little fuzzy on the details of exactly how many drinks they’ve had.

Dean calls for the check with an unsteady hand, glancing worriedly at the number of shot glasses and beer bottles piled on their table. Okay, maybe he’s drunker than he thought.

When he has the check in hand, he fumbles his wallet out of his pocket and carefully counts out the cash. He recounts it three times to make sure he’s got the right amount, and then begins the impossible task of lifting Sam out of the seat and getting him upstairs. It’s his duty as a friend. They’re friends, right? And Dean wants to be a good friend, because Sam’s the only one he’s got.

Dean doesn’t like the fancy hotels with indoor corridors. They don’t feel right to him. He can’t get out quickly enough if he needs to, and he feels caged. But that’s where Sam’s staying, so he grits his teeth and takes comfort in the fact that he’s not staying here.

There’s an elevator near the front desk. The late-night clerk on duty eyes them worriedly as they stumble toward it. There is little chance that Dean would make the stairs right now, and with Sam hanging off him just to keep standing, they’re definitely not going to make it. It takes an abnormally long time for the elevator to come down, and in the meantime, Dean props Sam against a wall and asks what room he’s in.

Sam’s only response is some unintelligible muttering and a half-giggle. Dean sighs, put-upon, because this can’t have been his idea. He didn’t want Sam to get drunk, right?

… sounds like one of his ideas.

He has to know where they’re going, though. It seems like the best (and only) idea in the world to dig through Sam’s pockets to find his key. His hands linger a little too long there, absorbed in the heat of Sam’s skin through the thin material inside his pockets.

Oh god, why does that seem like a good idea? Dean doesn’t molest people when they’re drunk, he doesn’t. He’ll have to apologize in the morning.

He finds the key, finally, and pulls it out to examine it; it’s a key-card, and the number for the room is in gold paint on a maroon background. Dean takes a deep breath when that’s over, and is just hoisting Sam back into a standing position when the elevator dings its arrival.

There’s no one else inside. Dean presses the button for the second floor and holds onto Sam, tries to keep an arm tight across his back to keep him from falling. The elevator shakes its way up, jostling them around, and by the time it stops on the second floor Sam is almost on the floor. He’s not being helpful; he won’t stand on his own and Dean is wobbly enough without Sam hanging on.

“Damn it, Sam,” Dean says under his breath and Sam looks up, all doe-eyed and hurt. “Well, pick yourself up,” Dean continues, grumpy, though he can’t say he isn’t affected just a little by the way Sam’s looking at him.

They finally get out of the elevator, and Sam’s room isn’t that far compared to the rest of their journey. It takes Dean four tries to get the key card in the slot and then back out again, and when he finally gets the door open it pitches them in.

Dean tries to keep Sam and himself both upright before they fall over and hurt something vital, feeling along the wall for the light switch at the same time. It takes a bit of maneuvering, but when Dean can see again, he quickly deposits Sam on the only bed and flings the suitcase that’s taking up most of it to the floor.

With shaking fingers, he takes Sam’s shoes off, gets one of the comforters over him and turns him on his side so he won’t drown in his own puke or anything. Damn kid. But Dean’s a good friend, and he’s done this for his Dad more nights than he can remember. Of course, he wasn’t also drunk then, but it’s a minor detail.

He sits for a minute on the edge of the bed while Sam makes himself as comfortable as he can with limited range of motion. Dean expects him to be snoring as soon as he stops moving. They stay like this, Sam tossing and turning and Dean watching him, for a good ten minutes. When Dean makes to leave because he’s also tired and drunk and needs to get home before he passes out and wakes to a very awkward situation, Sam makes a protesting noise.

“No,” he says (or, Dean thinks he’s saying). He’s not being terribly clear or eloquent with his speech. “Don’ go.”

“I have to,” Dean says, annoyed with Sam’s logic. God, he’s so tired. He just needs to get home, though he’s probably not in any shape to be driving. He hopes he doesn’t crash the car. That would suck. He’s swaying on his feet. “Sam, gotta…”

“Don’ drive,” Sam says. Dean doesn’t quite believe that he’s being this smart considering how wasted he is.

Dean suddenly wants to tell Sam that he’s driven in worse before and not been bothered, that he’ll be okay. But Sam protests louder when Dean moves closer to the door and he sighs, shuts it, and turns to Sam. “I’m—you’re making me sleep in the floor. That’s rude.”

Sam says something that sounds like “Mmrph.”

“Okay, gonna… I’m just going to the bathroom,” he narrates this for Sam in case Sam has any delusions that Dean is going anywhere and starts being loud again. God.

Once he’s in the bathroom with the door closed, he allows himself a look in the mirror. He looks like shit, and blurry at that. He’s glad he’s not driving. Not glad to be sleeping on the floor, of course.

There’s a sudden rush of vertigo that hits him when he moves too fast, and he has the lid of the toilet up and out of the way before he has time to really process what’s going on. Habit. When he’s done emptying the contents of his stomach into the bowl, flushes it and splashes water on his face, he’s even more tired than before. His movements are sluggish, and he doesn’t want to go back into the other room. Too much work. For a moment he considers just curling up on the bathroom rug, but Sam might trip over him. Or puke on him.

The tub’s out of the way, though. Dean takes a quick survey of his senses: is he drunk enough to fall asleep in a bathtub? Is he really?

Yeah. Yeah, he is.

*  
Sam wakes the next morning to the shrill beeping of the alarm, so loud and invasive it’s like one of Hell’s own bells. It’s a vicious, unfair attack on his eardrums, and as he turns over to try and silence it he finds that his head really fucking hurts.

Scratch that. Everything hurts. He finally gets the alarm turned off, but a shivery feeling is working its way up from his stomach, sweat’s breaking out all over…

He gets to the bathroom just in time to not incur the wrath of the hotel by puking all over their carpet. He spends an indeterminable amount of time retching, and when he’s done with that, dry-heaving until he’s sure he’s cracked a rib. What even happened last night that led to him being this fucked-up and hungover? The last thing he remembers is Dean at the bar, playing pool and putting himself on display, and then… and then Dean urging him to drink as many shots as he could in a row.

Oh, he’s obviously a very bad judge of character. Just now, Sam hates Dean.

It’s about that time when he comes to his senses long enough to realize that there’s a soft groaning sound coming from the general direction of the bathtub. Sam raises his head and pushes the shower curtain aside – not an easy task because whoever or whatever has lodged in his tub has firm hold of it, and finds Dean squinting up at him.

Dean is in his bathtub. Why is Dean in his bathtub?

“Turn off the light,” Dean complains, shutting his eyes against the bright fluorescents. Sam can’t even stand just now, let alone gather enough motor control to cross the room.

“Can’t,” Sam breathes out, and Dean grimaces. “Why are you in my bathtub?”

If Dean were capable of fully opening his eyes, Sam’s sure he would be receiving a glare right now. “Because you told me to stay.”

Sam rests his head against the cool porcelain of the tub and manages to get out, “I _hate_ you,” before he’s heaving again.

*

Half an hour later, Sam’s downed what seems like half a bottle of Advil, attempted a shower (after kicking Dean out of his tub), and is standing in the parking lot waiting for his tourists to make their way outside. His mouth tastes like he would expect a public toilet to taste and his sunglasses are doing absolutely nothing to block out how excruciatingly bright the sunlight is. As the first of the tourists filter out of the hotel, every greeting makes his head flare up with pain. It’s too bright, too warm, too loud out here to even begin to do his job properly.

Later, after what seems like days of leading people around and trying to explain things with as much enthusiasm as he can muster while currently experiencing the worst hangover of his life, he steps back into his dark, cold room and collapses into bed. There’s a half-formed inclination to check if Dean’s still here, but he falls asleep in the dark and the cool and the quiet before he has a chance to act on it. When he opens his eyes again, weak sunlight is striping the floor and his head is no longer pounding.

As they’re packing the coach to leave again, Sam kind of regrets not seeing Dean the night before. He doesn’t regret the time spent sleeping, but he’s disappointed that he doesn’t get to see Dean again for two weeks.

*“You look tired,” Jess says as she cards her fingers through Sam’s hair. He turns his head in her lap to look up at her, smiles, and it feels weak even to him.

“I am. But the air conditioner works.”

Jess smiles back at him, worry tugging at the corners of her mouth, and doesn’t say anything.

*

The Page city limits sign is flying by again before Sam has a chance to think about what’s going to happen here, how he’s not going to let Dean influence him like that again. He thinks briefly about not visiting the hotel bar at all, but that choice is taken out of his hands before he makes it.

He spots Dean as soon as they turn into the parking lot. He’s leaning casually against a black muscle car at the far end of the lot, and Sam thinks that as long as Dean’s doing that, he’s completely justified in finding him with his eyes so easily. The car doesn’t hurt, either; in a sea of plastic-bodied compact sedans, a car like that sticks out.

And then, of course, there’s Dean.

The moment the bus doors open, he’s crossing the parking lot. As he’s stalking over to Dean, he’s struck with how completely natural Dean looks like this, all leather jacket and rough edges, dangerous aura all wrapped around the most eye-catching car on the lot. The sun highlights his hair and darkens his freckles and Sam has to force himself to walk despite the urge to stop and stare.

He runs a hand over the trunk of the car, traces the curve with his fingers when he gets close enough. Dean watches him, cocky little half-smirk playing at the edge of his mouth.

“Nice ride,” Sam says, arm coming to rest on the roof.

“Thanks. Got her from my dad.” Dean shifts his feet on this asphalt, restless. He inclines his head at the waiting coach. “When can you get away from the mobile nursing home?” Sam scoffs, indignant. Behind him, the tourists are starting to unload, stretching their legs and glancing in their direction curiously.

“About an hour. Why?”

Dean half-shrugs. “Something I wanna show you. I’ll wait here.”

Sam nods, says, “Okay”, and hurries back to the coach. He feels Dean’s eyes on him as he’s unloading luggage, a physical weight between his shoulder blades.

It’s forty-five minutes later when the last couple is put away in their room. Sam deposits his own suitcase in his room and rushes back down the stairs, doesn’t bother trying to clean up any because he doesn’t want to keep Dean waiting. There are more important things, anyway.

These more important things arrive in the form of Dean lounging in the driver’s seat, tapping the steering wheel in time to the music streaming out of the open window.

“Sorry,” Sam says, and climbs into the passenger seat.

Dean just grins and turns the key in the ignition. The music – some old rock song Sam only remembers the chorus to – cuts off for half a second as the engine turns, and Sam takes a moment to fully appreciate how natural Dean looks like this. The tape deck whines a little as it spins past a particularly well-used piece of tape. There are worn places on the steering wheel, grooves that perfectly fit Dean’s fingers. There are wrappers and various other articles of trash littering the floorboards, but the leather upholstery is clean, shows no sign of wear. The Chevy emblem on the dashboard gleams in the dying sunlight.

“Where are we going?”

Dean turns the volume down just enough so he can speak over it. “Out to the desert,” is all he says, but he leaves the music down. Sam takes it as permission to speak.

“That’s not shady at all.” He’s only half-joking. Sam likes to think that he knows Dean fairly well. They’re friends, even. But that voice keeps telling him that he doesn’t know Dean, not really. He doesn’t know what keeps making him think this, but it hasn’t escaped his notice that when they talk, he’s the one doing most of the talking.

It’s the badboy thing Dean’s got going on, Sam decides. It’s the twin auras of mystery and danger that follow Dean like lost puppies. The actual thought of Dean doing anything to him is ridiculous, because Dean’s a good person.

Having hashed this out, Sam accepts the only answer he’s going to get and relaxes back into the passenger seat. He dozes, and when he wakes up the sunset has become a thin line of light on the horizon. Sam sits up as Dean kills the engine, looks around at where they are.

They are sitting, quite literally, in the middle of the desert. They’re buried in the landscape, sand and brush all around, and in the semi-dark it seems almost mystical, almost unreal. Dean sits there for a moment with his hand resting on the steering wheel, taking it in, before he gets out of the car and goes around to the backseat. He emerges with a cooler that he places next to one of the car’s front tires.

“You just gonna sit there all day?”

Sam steps out onto the dirt, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “What…?” he starts to ask, but Dean is suddenly pressing a cold beer into his hand. He watches Dean sit on the hood of the car, pushing himself up until he’s leaning against the windshield, one leg dangling over the side like a child. He settles down into this jacket even though it’s a warm night, casting his gaze to the dark sky above. When Sam follows his eyes, he finds the midnight-blue canvas swimming in stars.

Between the larger stars are so many tiny pinpricks it looks like glowing paint splatter. Entirely new constellations spin away above him and the desert is quiet. He and Dean are the only people in the universe. They’re small, insignificant compared to the endless dotted sky.

“Yeah,” Dean says happily, and Sam tears his eyes from the sky to look at him. Dean’s been watching Sam rather than the stars – he expects to be teased, but Dean isn’t teasing. He’s looking at Sam, smiling the most serene and genuine smile Sam’s ever seen him wear. It makes his stomach flop.

When he gets back to the hotel, Sam will realize exactly how much trouble he’s in. Right now it’s all he can do to sit beside Dean on the hood, legs stretched against black metal, eyes turned upwards. Sometime later, when all light has faded away and the moon has risen, casting long silver shadows on the sand, Dean says, “So how does the motel thing work? They pay for your room, right?”

The question throws Sam so far off that it takes him a few seconds to process what’s being asked. When he answers, something compels him to lie. “We get a discount, but it comes out of our pay.” It rises up unheeded, and Sam has to look away because he doesn’t know where that particular line of bullshit came from. Of course they pay for his accommodations. Why is Dean asking?

“Shit, man. That sucks.”

And then they lapse back into silence for a while. Sam glances at Dean, face painted by the moonlight, and thinks he’s beautiful. It’s not the first time he’s had the thought, but it’s the first time Sam actually allows himself to state it so plainly. It’s the first time Sam admits it to himself.

That’s followed by the realization that he’s attracted to Dean. He knew this before, but like allowing himself to think Dean is beautiful, saying it makes it real, more powerful. He’s attracted to Dean, and he has to stop this, whatever it is, before he’s in over his head.

He feels guilt like a physical thing and thinks maybe he’s already in over his head. It gnaws at his insides, sharper and more incessant than the growing lust that’s struggling for a foothold. That’s exactly why he has to get away before it’s too late, before he does something he can’t forgive himself for. Jess is home waiting for him, missing him. Jess, who doesn’t deserve Sam for even thinking about doing this.

“I was thinking, uh…” Dean’s voice cuts through his thoughts. He’s been staring, but he’s done it often enough by now that if Dean notices, he doesn’t say anything. Now Dean’s looking back at him, eyes dark and indeterminable.

He clears his throat before he continues. “I know you’re saving to marry your girl. You could stay with me while you’re here, save yourself some cash.” He drops his eyes but Sam can’t look away. God, he wants this. He wants this so badly. Seconds ago he wanted to stop this, and now he wants to encourage it?

Sam opens his mouth to reply, and he can’t stop himself before he says, “Yeah, sure. That’s a… that’ll help.” He’s astonished at himself. He doesn’t know what he’s doing anymore, doesn’t know what he’s saying, and he clamps his mouth tight to prevent anything else from spilling out.

What he does know is that when Dean smiles at him, content, it’s beautiful. He needs to keep Dean smiling like that.

*

Sam knows it’s going to be awkward; he expects it to be awkward. When Dean is waiting for him in the hotel parking lot for a second time, the bus driver meets Sam’s eyes in the rearview mirror and quirks an eyebrow. Sam tries to keep his face from heating.

The ride back to Dean’s place is quiet. The only sound in the car is the rumble of the engine and Sam taps his fingers against his thigh without realizing it. He’s starting to rethink this – it was an impulsive decision, and he was disarmed by Dean’s stupid gorgeous smile, and he doesn’t even know what’s going on anymore. Something like guilt eats away at him, and he doesn’t even know why. He hasn’t done anything.

But he wants to. He’s letting this continue, whatever it is. He’s still hanging around with Dean, which is a bad idea. Not because Dean’s a bad guy, but because every time he comes to Page, Sam gets that much more infatuated. It’s magnetism, pushing them together and Sam would like to believe that he’s powerless to stop it. But he isn’t.

If he really feels bad about it, he can go back to the hotel and shut himself in his room until he has to work. He can do that. It would be the smart thing to do.

Sam has always done the smart thing. This is one smart thing he knows he’s going to ignore.

Doesn’t stop the feeling that he’s done something awful, something that’s going to destroy the fragile life he’s built.

Dean steers the car up a short gravel drive and under a tin awning. The engine dies, cutting off the only sound and leaving them sitting there in awkward silence. The house is small, barely more than a glorified trailer, but it’s well-kept. It’s quaint. It blends in. Sam likes it.

The front stoop is a singular wooden step, painted white to match the front of the house. It leads to a tiny front porch, and above it is a greenish awning. It's folding in on itself, doesn't look very effective at keeping out the rain, but it doesn’t look shabby; all the components come together to make it imperfect. Homely. Sam thinks regretfully of the stark, colorless apartment in Palo Alto and is envious of this house that has so much character without even trying.

It's dark inside until Dean flicks on the light - a small living room, tiny kitchen and a miniature hallway with a door leading off either side. There's a wrought-iron dining table stationed halfway into the living room, and this detail alone tells Sam that this place has never suffered a woman's touch. It's small, but it's comforting. From the couch, Sam will be able to hear Dean breathing in the other room.

He hovers uncertainly near the door, his duffel clasped in his hands, until Dean kicks the door closed behind him and gestures at the couch. "Not sure you'll fit," Dean says, looking Sam up and down. "But it's all yours."

"Thanks," Sam replies, dropping his bag near the couch. "I appreciate it, you know."

Dean shrugs off his leather jacket and slings it over one of the chairs at the kitchen table, tosses his keys on the counter and says, "Yeah, no problem," on his way to the fridge. He grabs two beers and hands one to Sam.

He sits in the chair he's slung his jacket over, legs sprawled casually, and tips the neck of his bottle towards the other chair.

Sam joins him, looking around the room without really seeing it. An awkward silence descends over them and they try not to look at each other. Sam frowns at the window on the opposite wall.

“Nice place,” Sam says, and almost immediately kicks himself for it. Next, they’ll be talking about the weather.  
“Thanks.” Dean picks at the label on his beer, still not looking at Sam. After a moment, he stands, stretches. “Uh, I’m gonna go shower and head to bed.”

Sam clears his throat. “Yeah, okay. I’ll, uh. I’ll just get settled.” Dean gets him some spare blankets and a lumpy mass that Sam assumes must once have been a pillow, tells him he can help himself to anything, and disappears down the hallway. Sam makes himself comfortable, finds a position on the smallish sofa where his neck isn't bent at an impossible angle. This means his feet are sticking over the side, but that's something he's a little more used to.

The shower kicks off sometime later, and Dean pokes his wet head around the door frame and snickers.

"What?" Sam asks, bleary-eyed.

"Nothin'," Dean grins, and pads across the hallway to his bedroom, clutching the towel around his waist. Sam averts his eyes.

*

The night is long and uneasy, but it’s not one of Sam’s worst by far. The couch is uncomfortable, not meant from a man his size to squeeze into, but he can hear Dean’s light snoring echo through the house. He hasn’t closed his bedroom door and Sam doesn’t know what to make of that.

When he wakes in the morning, he nearly falls off the couch. Dean, standing in the kitchen and watching him over the small bar, snorts into his coffee.

"Coffee?" He asks, already heading to the pantry for a cup.

Groaning, Sam searches for a clock and finds one hanging on the wall behind the table - and nearly falls off the couch again as he scrambles to get up.

"No time," he mumbles, sweeping up his duffel on the way to the bathroom. "Tour in fifteen minutes." He's going to be sleep-mussed and tired today, and that'll be punishment enough. By the time he emerges, fully dressed and presentable but for the part of his hair that sticks up in the back, Dean is gone.

Sam leaves his bag neatly near the couch and goes outside, fully intending to walk to the hotel parking lot, and finds Dean with the car running.

"Thanks," he says, breathless, as he gets into the passenger side. It's cool, perfect outset to the blistering desert heat outside.

"No problem."

*  
Over the course of the next several weeks, it gets less awkward. Small favors, all that, but Sam really enjoys Dean’s company even if he keeps telling himself that he shouldn’t, and Dean at least puts up with him (after all, this was kind of his idea).

It's an easy, low-maintenance type of companionship - they sit together on the couch at night, watching whatever's on cable (which isn't much). Sometimes they settle on cooking shows, sometimes infomercials for things they're never going to need, and sometimes Dean even sits through a History Channel documentary. He has this fondness for black-and-white monster movies, though, and Sam finds himself watching Dean more than the movie when they settle on one of these. The light plays over the planes of his face, flickering in the dark, and the almost childlike joy on Dean's face is more than worth a couple of hours of bad special effects.

Sometimes they go to a dive, just to hang out and drink together. Sam almost prefers the quiet nights watching TV, but he'll take whatever he can get. Relaxation is relaxation no matter how you slice it.

They'll be sitting in one of the shady bars on the edge of town and Dean will be flirting with the bartender, with any one of the scores of girls that frequent these places, and something rises in Sam. Something that burns hot like jealousy, but there's no way he's jealous. He can't be. Dean isn't his, is never going to be. He carefully pushes that thought away and focuses instead on the bikers playing pool, on the bottles of amber liquid behind the long counter.

It happens far too frequently for comfort.

*  
On Sam’s sixth or seven trip through Page, Dean isn’t in the parking lot when he gets there. He slings his duffel over his shoulder and walks the short distance to Dean’s house; the car’s not in the drive, but Sam knows where the extra key is. He calls anyway.

*

The gunshot is loud in the silence, and the black dog goes down about two feet in front of him. Almost immediately after its body hits the ground, Dean’s cell phone rings.

He sighs, thinks about ignoring it (he has to finish this, make sure it’s dead), but it could be Dad. Postponing this for two seconds will save him an ass-chewing later. Dean flips his phone open without checking the display.

“Yeah?”

“Uh. This is Sam. I’m here and you’re not, so I used the extra key. Hope that’s okay.”

 _Crap, that was today?_ “Oh, hey, yeah. That’s fine. I’m just a couple of towns over, gotta pick up this part for my car. I’ll be home in—“ he checks his watch, quickly calculates how long finishing this up and heading back will take. “Two, three hours? Help yourself.” The lie is easy. He almost feels bad for it, but he’s tired and covered in blood (some of it his own), and the only thing he cares about is finishing the job.

“Okay,” Sam says, and there’s a sound like scuffling on the other end of the line.

“Yeah,” Dean answers too fast, and marvels at how horrible they are at communicating. “Listen, I gotta go.” The black dog looks like it might be twitching.

“Sure, I’ll be here.” Sam sounds like he wants to say something else, but he hangs up. Dean tucks his phone away and levels his gun at the twitching mass of fur. He’s got to start writing these things down.

*

Dean comes through the door hours later, sweat-soaked and dirty. The lights are off and Sam is sprawled on the couch, watching TV. He’s got one foot on the floor and the remote resting on his stomach; his hair’s all over the place, like he might have taken a nap between dinner and the documentary on alien abduction that’s currently playing. Dean grins, sheepish.

“Sorry I’m late.” He doesn’t know why he’s apologizing. Besides late, he’s smelly and dirty and bloody, and he’s glad that the lights are off so Sam can’t see.

“Nah,” Sam says, grinning, and his voice sounds thick. “It’s okay. There’s food in the kitchen if you want.”

Dean’s eyes light on the take-out box next to the microwave, and suddenly realizes he’s starving. “I could get used to this,” he teases, and Sam makes a huffing sound that’s most likely accompanied by an eye-roll.

“You smell,” Sam says, and sounds almost fond.

*When Dean’s finished cleaning and dressing the small slash to his side, he grabs two beers from the fridge and knocks Sam’s feet off the couch so he can sit. He hands one of the bottles to Sam, who takes it and sits up to drink.

*  
“This is boring,” Dean complains. They’ve switched to something about the Civil War.

Sam tosses Dean the remote, and Dean nearly drops his beer trying to catch it. He finds an old Godzilla movie on one of the lower channels and announces triumph.

Five beers later, the title card for the sequel lights up the screen. Dean calls it a special occasion and goes for the hard stuff he keeps stashed on top of the fridge. He tells Sam it’s because he really loves this movie, but it’s mostly because the gash in his side is starting to ache and he needs to forget what pain feels like for a while.

It’s got to be at least midnight. All the lights are off except the TV, and they’re both completely wasted. Godzilla no longer graces the screen; it’s turned to some late-night infomercials for special soaps and those blankets with sleeves. Sam and Dean happen to think those are the funniest things they’ve ever seen.

Dean giggles, drains the last shot in the bottle, and passes it, empty, to Sam. Sam frowns at it, then puts it aside and reaches for his half-forgotten beer again. It’s stale by now, warm, but he gulps it like a pro anyway.

When he looks back, hazy, at Dean, shivers run down his spine. Dean’s watching him, heavy gaze focused on his face.

“What?” Sam says, or thinks he says. It comes out more slurred than he expected, and he can barely recognize what he’s saying.

“Nothin’,” Dean replies, and he has at least some grip on the English language left because he gets that through loud and clear.

Sam doesn’t know what happens next, but he suddenly realizes he’s horizontal, shoulders pressed against the arm of the couch, and all of Dean’s weight is on top of him.

He tries to make a protesting sound, but he realizes that Dean’s mouth is covering his and oh, he knows what to do here. Sam nips at Dean’s bottom lip, licks his way into Dean’s mouth and lets them work together. Dean’s tongue strokes up and down his own, slick, just the right amount of pressure, and his protesting is replaced by a moan that comes from the tips of his toes.

It’s sloppy; it’s wet and no one’s really coordinated enough to kiss properly, but it gets the job done well enough for Sam. There’s a blanket of fog over his inhibitions, suffocating them, and Dean’s mouth looks plush and soft. He’s thought about it before, how it’d feel, but only abstractly; now, here, doing this, he can’t remember what he thought it would feel like.

Because it feels one hundred times better than he thought it would.

Dean’s fingers fist clumsily in Sam’s hair, and he tugs a little; Sam’s neck arches, and the kiss breaks. Dean’s mouth immediately falls to the curve of his neck. He bites at the point where Sam’s pulse pounds. It’s almost hard enough to draw blood and he wants to tell Dean it hurts, but he’s not sure it does. The only thing he’s sure of is Dean’s lips and teeth and tongue feel fucking amazing on his skin and he doesn’t want it to end.

Dean licks over the bite, eases the sting with the gentle push of his tongue and sucks the sore skin into his mouth. It’s incredibly cohesive for someone who is as drunk as Sam is, but Dean holds his liquor better.

He leaves a mark (which, Sam will realize later, is a really bad idea) and licks his way downward. When his mouth comes in contact with the rough fabric of Sam’s t-shirt, he groans and raises his head.

“Off,” he says, tugging at the hem. Sam doesn’t know when Dean’s hands left his hair and traveled south, but right now he can’t care. Dean’s knuckles are brushing his stomach where they raise his shirt, and all he wants is more of that. He tries to oblige but he can’t get this fingers to close around the fabric. He does this sort of sideways shimmy thing that nearly throws Dean off the couch, and after righting himself, Dean just pushes him back gently and works Sam’s shirt up over his head.

Sam wants to tell Dean that he should take his shirt off too. He wants to see the muscles outlined beneath, wants to touch them and watch the way they move under the skin. But before Dean leans down again, his own shirt’s flying across the room, and Sam thinks it’s pretty nifty that Dean can read his mind like that.

He lets his hands wander over Dean’s chest, skimming over peaks and valleys of muscles under the skin. Dean isn’t bulky, but he’s lean and muscular in a way that Sam would never be able to achieve. He’s in awe for a moment at how soft Dean’s skin is underneath his fingertips, and then he reaches the edge of what feels like gauze.

“Wha’s that?” Sam looks down at the wrappings of some small wound; blood is seeping through the white cotton and making itself visible. He snatches his hand back. “What’d you do?” And he’s surprised to find himself able to form an intelligible sentence.

“Car,” Dean says, quickly leans down and distracts Sam by flicking his tongue across a nipple. Sam promptly forgets all about it, because Dean’s mouth is fucking awesome. It bears repeating.

He bites, forms a wicked clamp around Sam’s nipped with his teeth and tugs. Sam nearly bucks off the couch.  
“Nnnfuck,” Sam says intelligently, and Sam is beginning to think that Dean’s a lot less drunk than Sam is.  
“Like that?” Dean whispers against his skin, breath smelling like alcohol, and bites him again. Sam makes an undignified sound and arches his back like a whore.

Dean shifts so they’re sitting up, one of his big hands bracing Sam’s back. He spends a while flicking his tongue across Sam’s nipples, biting down and grinning when Sam comes out of his skin. By the time Dean is satisfied, Sam’s lazily rolling his hips against Dean’s body. He isn’t too particular about which part, he just knows that the friction on his cock feels amazing.

All of Dean feels amazing. Sam would write odes if he wasn’t already occupied.

“Want,” he mumbles, reaches for Dean’s shoulders, and Dean looks up. His pupils are dilated, a ring of green surrounded by deepest black; Sam contorts himself to kiss him. From this position, Dean’s taking charge of the situation. He fucks into Sam’s mouth roughly, twists his tongue, plunders and he wants. Sam makes helpless, incoherent noises. It’d be nice to have that tongue on his cock. It would be really, really nice.

“What do you want?” Dean asks, breathless, when they both come up for air.

“Ungh, I’unno.” He gives a particularly violent roll of his hips, just the right amount of pressure, _fuck_ … but what catches him is the sound Dean makes, a strangled growl, and Sam does it again just to hear it.

As soon as it rips out of Dean’s throat he reaches down between them and gets a hand wrapped around Sam’s hip, holding him down on the couch. Sam whimpers, tries to twist away, but Dean doesn’t let him; instead, he works on his belt, trying to get it off one-handed, but he can’t get a proper grip and finally gives up.

“Gotta move,” he mumbles, and untangles himself. Sam immediately misses his head, the solid weight of him. He reaches out, but Dean slaps his hands away. “C’mon. Bed,” he says. “Not enough room.”

This would be the point that Sam would rethink this if he was sober. He’d realize that he can’t betray Jess like this and go back to his hotel. But he’s not sober. Plus, Dean’s amazing; not just his tongue and his hands and his eyes, but all of him. Amazing.

So he follows like an obedient puppy.

They shed their clothes as they go. Sam’s jeans fall somewhere in the hall; he’ll trip on them later, but he’s trying not to trip on them _now_. He finally realizes that he’s got to stand still or they won’t separate from his legs properly (and the hallway is really dark, and spinning). Taking his boxers off is a little easier, and they land somewhere in the dark bathroom opposite Dean’s bedroom.

When he finally gets there, Dean’s already naked, waiting on the edge of the bed. He’s watching Sam stalk across the room, watching Sam all impatient and needy, and a shivery feral sounds works its way up out of his throat.

“Get over here,” Dean grits out, watches Sam darkly, and Sam obediently sidles up to him.

It doesn’t escape Sam’s notice how beautiful Dean is. He’s got these gorgeous cheekbones and amazing eyes, and Sam can’t stop looking at them. Dean’s hands are everywhere at once, nails skimming down his sides even though Sam’s taller, still taking complete command of the situation. Dean has that ability, whether it’s this or just walking into a room; he’s suddenly in control.

Dean stretches up, commands another kiss, whispers, “On the bed.”

A shiver runs up Sam’s spine and he obeys, climbs up on Dean’s bed and flops himself down on his back. He can feel Dean watching him for a few moments more, and then he’s crawling up the bed, crawling up Sam’s body with all the grace and fluidity of a cat. Sam watching, breathless and straining; the single desk lamp halfway across the room pains the contours of Dean’s body a darker gold, light and shadow, and Sam wants to lick him all over.

“Please,” he babbles. “Please. Want you.”

Dean watches and doesn’t say anything. The intensity of his gaze makes Sam want to crawl out of his skin, before he leans down and kisses each of Sam’s well-bitten nipples lightly, moving downward.

He never takes his eyes off Sam’s, and Sam has to prop himself unsteadily on his elbows to prevent breaking their eye contact. Something about it tells Sam that he could probably come just from this, from light caresses and the weight of Dean’s gaze on him.

This is unreal.

He slowly licks and sucks his way down Sam’s body, circles his navel with his tongue, noses the thin line of hair leading down to Sam’s cock. He leaves another sucking mark on his hip; a mark of claiming, of ownership, a bad idea but Sam can’t muster the strength to care.

Dean’s eyes close halfway through making his mark. Sam can feel the bed shifting where he’s rutting against it. He makes the kind of sound that Sam finds he really, really likes to hear and moves away, apparently satisfied with the bruise.

Sam’s cock bobs in front of his face, thick and heavy, and for a second it looks like Dean’s going to put his mouth on it. It looks like he wants to, but ends up moving lower instead.

Dean isn’t tentative. He probes down between Sam’s legs, pulls him apart to find what he’s looking for. His tongue circles the rim of Sam’s hole for a while, and Sam gradually relaxes. It’s strange; he’s never felt anything like it, but that doesn’t mean it’s bad. He squirms a little.

Dean chuckles, buries his face there and pushes forward with his tongue unexpectedly. Sam jumps, tries to squirm away; it’s uncomfortable, but then Dean pushes past the tight ring of muscle and inside him.  
Sam’s never felt so exposed.

His face must be scarlet, at least. It’s uncomfortable for a few moments, Dean’s tongue working around inside, occasionally pulling out and dipping back in. By the time he pulls away, licking his lips and looking satisfied with himself, Sam feels slick and loose and open.

“Still want it?” Dean asks, and it takes Sam a few minutes to remember how to use his mouth.

“Mm,” he agrees. He likes to think that he panics, but he doesn’t. When Dean’s fingers trail behind his balls, his thighs fall open wider and he actually shifts around to make it easier. Dean grins down at him, sloppy and too dazed to be entirely alert. Then he pushes inside.

The first finger is thicker than his tongue. It’s longer, and Sam shifts around as Dean pushes in deeper, opens him just a little wider. His fingers aren’t dry, either; they’re wet, slide-y, and Sam can’t recall what that is and doesn’t know when Dean did it. The second burns a little as it stretches him wider, but he takes it all anyway.

So many people wouldn’t do this if it didn’t feel good, after all. Dean props himself on one arm, and Sam grips his forearm as Dean’s fingers move inside.

Until now, he’s been going slow, steady, even gentle. But now he pulls both fingers out; Sam nearly whines before they’re being shoved back in, brutal, hard. Dean twists them and brushes against something that makes Sam see stars. He arches his back, pushing down onto Dean’s fingers with a ragged groan.

“Fuckfuckfuck do that again,” Sam gasps when he can breathe again, rolls his hips to try and find that spot again. Dean does the obeying for once, and Sam can’t help the shout that tears from his throat.

He can feel Dean smile against his neck. “You like that.”

“Fuck yes,” Sam pants. Dean scissors his fingers, slides them around until he can fit another. Sam hisses, added stretch and burn too much until it isn’t, until he’s pushing back on Dean’s fingers because suddenly that’s not enough. Once Dean thinks he’s ready he pulls his fingers away, lines himself up, and Sam tries to tell himself to relax.

The first heavy drag makes Sam’s breath hitch, and not because it feels good. He knows it’ll get better, is convinced now. Dean pushes forward slow, steady, and Sam holds his breath, fists the sheets and hangs on; Dean’s whispering to him, but Sam can’t tell what he’s saying.

Sam lets out a shaky breath when Dean bottoms out, and when he can talk again, he says, “F-fuck. Feel fucking huge.” Dean laughs, short and unsteady, sounds like he’s restraining himself. He pulls back a fraction of an inch and pushes forward again, getting Sam used to it, carving a place for himself in Sam’s body and driving Sam out of his skin.

A few more half-thrusts and Sam is relaxed enough to enjoy it. Dean is still taking it slow, breathing hard like he’s just run a mile, and eventually Sam uncurls his fist from a wad of comforter and grips Dean’s shoulder, digging his fingers in. “C’mon, move,” he says, rolling his hips impatiently. It feels good, better with every thrust, and he pushes Dean to move faster as he needs it.

It doesn’t take long for Sam to be completely adapted, and Dean is pushing him back into the mattress with every thrust, headboard rattling against the wall. He shifts up, changes his angle and drags over that sparkly spot inside. It makes him tense, every muscle waiting for release, begging for it. He fists his cock so fast that his arm aches, poised on the edge of this cliff.

Dean bats Sam’s hand away, replaces it with his own, and between thrusting up into Dean’s hand and back down onto Dean’s cock Sam comes apart. It hits him like lightening, Dean through him and in him and around him, sizzling down his spine. Every muscle seizes and jerks, and Sam shoots all over both of them, on his own stomach and Dean’s chest. Looks so pretty like that, and Sam’s nerves fizzle out. He’s babbling, knows his is, doesn’t really want to know what he’s saying.

There are these breathy, punched-out sounds coming from Dean. He shouts and it sounds almost painful as he comes, head thrown back, fingers digging into the bruise on Sam’s hip. Sam’s cock twitches, tries valiantly to be interested again, but he has nothing else to give.

His muscles relax one by one. Dean draws out of him, gentle, and collapses next to him on the bed. Sam arranges himself more comfortably and lets Dean pepper his face with kisses in post-coital bliss. He falls asleep with Dean a heavy weight next to him, sweaty skin sticking where they’re pressed together. 


End file.
